


Dead Ringer

by Hammish



Category: Original Work
Genre: Corpses, Curses, Evil Plans, Evil Twins, Gen, Magic, Sickness, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammish/pseuds/Hammish
Summary: Negligence breeds contempt; suffering causes desperation. When cursed by a sorcerer for his selfish actions, Lord Pagan Menza is sentenced to a fate worse than death. Years later, he is ready to enact his plan to escape.





	Dead Ringer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for checking out my story! Although this isn't fanfiction, I hope you enjoy it!

A tall, spindly figure bent over to adjust the corpse’s position one last time as he watched the sunset through the small, rectangular window overhead. The basement window was just above ground level, grass peeking through the iron bars. The man’s pale hands weakly tugged on stiff limbs until the body rested precisely in the center of the pentagram that had been painstakingly etched into the floor with ash. The subject of the ritual had been retrieved from a nearby funeral home by one of his few remaining servants.

He brushed some loose strands of his greasy brown hair out of his face so he could focus on completing the ritual properly; he could not afford even the tiniest mistake if he wanted to escape. The chain connected to the shackle around his ankle banged against the ground as he moved to stand near the body’s head, just another reminder of why he was doing this. With steadily increasing volume, he began chanting the Latin incantation that he had studiously deciphered from ancient texts over the course of the many months trapped in this room.

The air was thick with magic, almost tangible enough to taste, and he could see a haze of pale purple swirling about the room. It shrouded the corpse in a thin veil of lavender mist before entering the body through the nose. The sound of water steadily dripping from an old pipe became apparent as he grew silent. For a moment, he was fearful that he had messed up. Then, ever so slightly at first, the corpse shuddered; empty lungs began to fill with the basement’s stale air, and a restored heart began pumping blood throughout the body. Green eyes, identical to his own, burst open to stare at the grim surroundings. The being laid there, staring transfixed at the aged wood beams running the length of the ceiling, not yet having enough energy to move. The plan so far was a success!

The man stared intently at the reanimated body and was pleased to see the corpse’s indistinguishable features had been shaped in his own likeness over the course of the ritual; it was as if he was looking at a twin. It was eerie how similar they were. The one stark difference between the two was that the corpse looked healthier. The corpse’s hair was not greased from being unwashed nor was he sickly pale from years being kept in the dark of the basement. Unlike him, it had not been subject to the curse.

Looking at this manufactured twin reminded him of that fateful day years ago. It had been the last day that he had been able to move without his bones creaking, breathe without his body shuddering in pain, and think without the haze of constant sickness. Despite the fog that shrouded the clarity of his thoughts, he was able to remember the events that led to this cursed existence painstakingly well.

It had been a year with an unprecedented number of commoners succumbing to strange, incurable diseases. As Lord Pagan Menza, the ruler of a tiny island kingdom, it was his responsibility to ensure his people remained safe and healthy. However, he had been corrupted by the material riches of the world and let his ego guide his actions.

Instead of aiding those that looked to him for help, he had stayed holed up in his manor, hiding as a vampire would from daylight. He could remember the countless times he had asked servants to turn those seeking shelter away, fearful of being contaminated. He had also stopped funding the healers who had determinedly tried to find a cure to the strange afflictions in favor of hoarding his money and paying for a wall to be built around his manor.

On that fateful day, he had ordered the servants to turn away the commoners requesting sanctuary as usual. As soon as he was alone in his room, there was a burst of light and a man wearing a black cape stood there with an obvious look of disgust on his face. Being a lord, he threatened to call the guards and have the intruder thrown in prison and executed. The man hadn’t batted an eyelash at his threat and instead, covered his mouth so he couldn’t call out for help. He had struggled, but it was no use; he had been unable to escape.

Sometimes, the memory of the day was so clear he could still feel those callous hands against his lips, the uncut nails that bit into his wrist, preventing him from struggling too much, and the harsh words that were whispered into his ears. They haunted him every hour he spent in the basement, commandeering his thoughts and slipping into his dreams.

“Pagan Menza, you don’t deserve the title of Lord. You have left your people to face their afflictions alone, and now they will do the same for you. You’re already a recluse, and the people manage themselves well enough, so you’re disappearance won’t be noticed. I’m going to make sure you pay for every life that was lost as a result of your negligence,” the man began as Pagan started shaking in fear; his captor had zeroed in on it like a bird of prey going in for the kill and continued his threats. “Don’t fret; your suffering will allow everyone to live prosperously. I’m going to chain you to the suffering of this land, and you will bare everything that afflicts it. A lord should look after his people after all; I’m just helping you actually complete your duties. I’m sure you’ll try to escape, but keep in mind, if your shackle is every empty for more than an hour, everything you suffered will be unleashed upon the servants who help you, and you will die in the most painful way imaginable. A captain has got to go down with his ship, or in this case, a lord with his kingdom.”

An indistinguishable spell was whispered, and he began to feel drowsy. He slumped into the man, his mind riddled with fear and panic. This couldn’t be happening.

Just as his mind went blank, the man uttered one last thing, “And don’t even think about getting someone else to fill your new role. Only your presence will satisfy the shackle; there is no twin to take your place.”

When he woke up, his left ankle was trapped in a shackle that was connected to the basement wall. He could move around the room easily enough, but there was no way he could leave. At first, he had been tempted to pull the wretched metal off his leg; the thought of a gruesome death was the only thing that stopped him. As the days dragged on, months became years, his body succumbed to the curse. He became so weak from bouts of sickness that he could barely move. He cursed the man from that day constantly, swearing that he would find him and get revenge. However, he figured that he would die, leaving his wish unfulfilled, but Pagan soon came to realize that the curse kept him just well enough that death would never be an option. In fact, it even prevented him from dying from old age, and he was physically still the age he was when the suffering began.

Over time, he came to realize the only effective way to escape was to find an identical twin to take his place, except he was an only child. Furthermore, there was no way a commoner would pass as him. The few servants who still tended to the manor would bring him food, their loyalty and pity preventing them from leaving him in complete solitude. As time wore on, Pagan knew he would be unable to sacrifice them as a result of an escape attempt, causing him to be even more careful when concocting his plan. As much as he hated to admit it, he did owe them something for their continued service.

Eventually, he came up with the idea of magically creating a twin and asked the servants to bring him research materials on that subject matter. After tedious hours of sifting through the material that often left him wheezing until he passed out, he discovered his plan could be put into practice and began preparing for the ritual. That had been a year ago, and today, it was actually happening.

Limbs clumsily trying to find leverage broke him out of his memories. The corpse struggled to sit up, emerald eyes filled with fear staring into his own. Once in a sitting position, it moved its limbs about experimentally and licked its lips.

After a moment, it spoke in a tentative yet familiar voice, “Where am I? Who am I?”

He walked slowly over to where the corpse sat and knelt down on the ground in front of it.

“We’re in the basement of Menza Manor. Your name is Pagan, and I’m…” he hesitated for a moment, searching for the name he had decided upon earlier. “Ryan.”

“Oh.”

“I’d offer you tea and somewhere more comfortable to sit, but,” he shook his chained leg a bit. “I’m not going anywhere soon.”

The reanimated corpse was an open book, face flickering with many emotions as it tried to process what was going on. It was important though that this doppelganger knew as little as possible about the real situation; Pagan could not afford to fail after coming so far. He knew if the former corpse knew the truth, he would face resistance and have to engage in a struggle he would undoubtedly lose; the curse had weakened him too much.

“Ryan, why can’t I remember anything? What is going on?”

Pagan took a deep breath, only to end it in a coughing fit. He righted himself when it no longer felt like his lungs were going to burst from his chest.

“The manor was attacked by commoners hoping to take our position as the lords of the land. They chained me up and knocked you unconscious. You need to free me so we can escape and return to our rightful place. Help me…please.”

Pagan was sure the look on his face as he pleaded with this manufactured twin was utterly pathetic. By the sad look that the man gave him, it was clear that he had managed to gain the former corpse’s sympathy. He stifled a laugh that seemed to bubble out of him by coughing into his hand; this was too perfect. His “twin” was clearly a sympathetic and trusting soul.

“Hold on, Ryan. I’ll figure out some way to get you out.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a smile.

The ex-corpse looked around for anything that could be used to release Pagan from the shackle. His eyes fell on the metal cutters that sat by the door. He stood up unsteadily and awkwardly made his way over to the tool.

“These will work perfectly!” he said, experimentally opening and closing the blades.

The reanimated corpse didn’t even think about why the exact tool required to free Pagan would be resting inconspicuously by the door. It didn’t even cross his mind that Pagan had requested his servants to leave them there only hours earlier.

He moved slowly back to Pagan and lined up the tool with the shackle, ever so carefully cutting right through the base of the shackle with precision Pagan didn’t think was possible. The metal ring dropped to the floor with a clang. Pagan let out a sigh of relief when he saw that it was mostly intact. That would make the transfer easier.

Pagan felt his strength beginning to return to him, and the fog in his mind that had been a constant companion began to lift. He was able to focus on what was going on with a clarity that had not existed for years. He was acutely aware as he was pulled into a hug that this would be his chance, probably his only one to act. He could already feel heaviness in the air, the curse’s way of reminding him of the brutal consequences of leaving the shackle empty.

Pagan returned the embrace and slowly guided them so that their positions were reversed. The doppelganger was now the one closest to the shackle.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Pagan crooned.

It was time. He knew he now had enough strength now to pull it off. The poor soul never noticed the slight tensing in Pagan’s muscles before being pushed backward, head slamming against the stone floor with a crack. Taking advantage of the unconscious state, Pagan quickly slipped the broken shackle ring over the man’s right leg. Using another spell he had stumbled upon, Pagan sealed the shackle.

Pagan stood there, waiting to see if it was a success, anticipating the pain that would occur if it failed. The weight in the air began to disperse, and the doppelganger’s skin was slowly paling. The shackle had deemed him suitable to fill the role.

For the first time in years, Pagan made his way out of the basement. He blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust to the blinding light of the outside world that filtered into the manor’s hallway. He was free at last.

Pagan turned back to look at the basement through the door that was still open. He could see the newly-chained man beginning to stir, and he was sure his face would be filled with fear when he realized his fate. There was no room for regret. By sacrificing his doppelganger, his dead ringer, he was getting his life back. Shutting the basement door, Pagan looked to the future.


End file.
